


Golden Age

by scriptscribbles



Series: Doctor Who - Golden Age/Silver Cage [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who: Virgin New Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: F/F, Kidz Bop, M/M, Nicki Minaj - Freeform, yeah sorry I had to go there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-12 06:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15333990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptscribbles/pseuds/scriptscribbles
Summary: War. Recession. Political turmoil. There comes a time in every civilization where people long for the simpler past. Suburbia. Happy families. The pleasures of a few fragrant flowers and a well cooked meal.Come to the Homestead Colony. We've reconstructed the pleasures of old Earth suburbia on a shining new terraformed world, right in the center of the New Earth Empire. Everything is simple here. And you and your family will fit in perfectly.Welcome packages are compulsory.(Part 1/2)





	1. Welcome Party

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: This story includes graphic depictions of violence and some truly horrible and dehumanizing things happening to a diverse cast of characters. In particular, there is a moment that could be particularly triggering for trans-aligned people. I will be sure to signpost the scene in question when it is uploaded here.
> 
> Please know this story is written with nothing but love for and celebration of the queer community, but part of telling a story of this nature involves exploring the way this community that I love being a part of has been hurt, and that involves me exploring some forms of oppression I am not personally a part of and thus can only ever approximate an understanding of. I consulted friends of the groups involved to get the best possible portrayal I could, but I advise caution from sensitive readers.

The suburb is an ordinary suburb. The house is an ordinary house. The family living inside is an ordinary family: the Sternbergs, two loving husbands, one sweet son. And, of course, the landing shuttle from the nearest star system is as ordinary as it gets. Also, it’s red.  
  
_Lets go to the beach, each, let’s go get away_  
  
The Sternbergs are gathered around the dining room table, the nice plates and silverware placed gently on clean placemats. Daniel, a mustached sort of father, black hair speckled with gray, scoops out the baked beans. Brandishing tongs, his husband Patrick flips bratwurst off plate, still sizzling from the grill, a cheeky smile all the while. He’s beaming at his son, bright green eyes glowing with love. And little Simon waits eagerly, hoping to sneak the first bite when nobody’s looking. Under the table, he’s squeezing a little plush ogre far, far too tight, its skin bulging under the pressure, like a pimple rammed full of stuffing. Its felt skin is stained by spilt dinners gone by.  
  
_They, say, what they gonna say_  
  
It’s the perfect picture of the perfect family, in a neighborhood of perfect families. And like any perfect suburb, of course, it’s entirely fake.  
  
_Have a think, clink, have a good night_  
  
“Simon, are you sure you’re not feeling up to the welcome party?” asks Daniel as he slips into his wooden chair. “The Planetary Association really is insisting we come.”  
  
_Good people like me, it’s hard to come by..._  
  
Simon pulls his sausage out of his mouth, where he’d been shoving it without even bothering to cut it into pieces first. He gives his most petulant glare, the sort that most adults use swearing as shorthand for, and a firm “No.”  
  
Patrick pats Simon on the back. “Our little champ’s not feeling well, Dan. It’s okay,” he reassures his husband. “I’ll go along tonight, make some excuses. You two can go to next one. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”  
  
Daniel tugs at his mustache, the sort of anxious habit that substitutes for past, more destructive ones. The sort one gives up to raise a kid. “Are you sure, Petal?” he asks.  
  
There’s a pause as Patrick chuckles, his brain flashing back through so many moments. His widest, cheekiest smile is enough to defuse the tension. “I’m always sure. I’ve got great judgement. I married you, after all!” It’s a smile that spreads across his entire face, through those deep emerald eyes, crinkling the nose just right, lining up every little bump and mole and wrinkle to make the most beautiful, comforting face there ever was.  
  
It’s fortunate Daniel takes this opportunity to lap up every little detail, because he’ll never see that smile again.  
  
Cold. That’s the weather outside, the muggy summer air wooshing away with the falling of the sun. Patrick shivers as he walks alone to the party, only his whistling for company. Perhaps he’s thinking, “I should have brought a jacket.” Or perhaps, on some level, he knows what’s coming.  
  
He stops in the road for a moment, about halfway there. Something silver catches his eye, slithering through the street. He tells himself it’s just his imagination.  
  
_...I’m on the floor, floor, I love to dance_  
  
The party is warm and bright, filling the spacious house with golden air. Daniel relishes the feeling as it flows into his frozen limbs. It’s like his skin is being lightly lapped at by flames, just enough to sizzle pleasantly and spark him back to life.  
  
_So give me more, more ‘till I can’t stand_  
  
Perfect little appetisers sit on shelves. Not the normal little frozen cocktail weenies and sad, sad potato skins of the typical suburban party. These all pop with color and flavor from a billion, billion worlds and a billion, billion cuisines. Patrick helps himself to the Apalapucian caviar. It’s divine.  
  
_Get on the floor, floor, like it’s your last chance_  
  
“Patrick, sweetie, so good to see you!” smiles the Hostess, beehive hairdo and lime green dress, taking him by the arm. They’d certainly never met before, Patrick is sure. But she’s already guiding him through the crowd, insisting on being the best of friends. “We’ve got the welcome packages just through here.”  
  
_If you want more, more, then here I am_  
  
Music buffets him from all sides, electronic beats dropping to a chorus of children’s voices. It’s a bit catchy and a bit camp rubbish, but that just makes it all the more charming. Doesn’t it? He listens:  
  
_Starships were meant to fly_  
  
Down the hallway, up some stairs. Patrick finds his eyes pointing every direction but ahead; the house instills a bourgeoise sense of wonder, so spacious and tastefully decorated he can’t take it all in. And yet, it’s hard to register place; it all looks so similar in its carefully oriented aesthetic, so easy to drown in. His mental map of the place is a muddle. And so, when the Hostess takes Patrick to a door, simple and set into the wall, he hasn’t a clue how they got there. She smiles patiently at him as she places one hand against a panel to the side. Her touch is so gentle and delicate, her manicured, uncalloused fingers barely brushing the surface. Only her ring, a showy gold and diamond affair, is hard enough to make the slightest of scraping noises. As she pulls her hand away, the door lifts with a hissing kshuk!  
  
_Hands up, and touch the sky_  
  
Those slim fingers move again, gesturing into the room. Patrick’s steps plod along to the rhythm of the music, whisking him inside. It’s a bare, a plain white cubicle. Grates line the floor, the sound of trickling faintly perceptible. The smell of food drowns in the intensely present scent of antiseptic.  
  
_Can’t stop, ‘cuz we’re so fly_  
  
The Hostess glances him up and down before she speaks. “Do you, Patrick Sternberg, consent to the rules of the colony?”  
  
_Let’s do this one more time_  
  
Patrick smiles. He’d been told to expect this. “I consent.”  
  
_Starships were meant to fly_  
  
“And do you consent to the mandatory implants?”  
  
_Hands up, and touch the sky_  
  
Patrick pauses. He’s read it all already. He knows what to expect, but still he pauses, weighing the costs. He thinks back to all those months of asteroid belt trailer parks. Of overdue bills. Of schools run by century-old robots, of drinking water and protein recycled from bodily matter, of one small room to run the lives of the whole family. He thinks back to the house he has just moved into, with its spacious bedrooms, its meticulously tiled kitchens with all the fixtures, its cozy nook by the fireplace to read to Simon before bed. He tastes the crumbs of biscuit and lingering trace of caviar lodged between his teeth, his tongue whittling away to dig the irritation out. The flavor remains amazing. He sees the faces of Simon and Daniel. His boys. What’s a little bit of metal in his head to that? It’s a small thing to surrender to.  
  
_Let’s do this one last time_  
  
“I consent.”  
  
_Can’t stop, we’re KIDZ BOP and we’re taking over_  
  
The Hostess nods, removing her hand from the panel. “Good luck, and welcome to the family.”  
  
The door is closing now. The music is gone. All sound is, for a long moment, gone, except his heart, which is hammering like a million soldiers marching perfectly in time, closer and closer, faster and faster.  
  
The pupils of his vibrant green eyes dilate as the hormones pound through his body, the flecks of gold contracting as the muscles behind the colors contract and twitch. He knows something is coming.  
  
And then the screaming starts.  
  
Outside the cubicle, the Hostess smiles to herself, perhaps even relishing the faintest trace of his cries, muffled and distant. She hangs a sign on the door before leaving, in bright red:  
  
“Do not disturb: Upgrade in progress.”


	2. Old Friends and Dead People

_“You did this!”_  
  
_The monster shrivels away, fluids dripping, saliva slopping, organs-- best not to think about it. The claw, desperately snatching. A woman’s scream. “Ace! Help!” Still screaming. Then silence._  
  
_Again, best not to think about it._  
  
A smouldering battlefield. A lawn chair. A blanket. A thermos of tea. It seems an odd mix to Ace, but after the horrors of the day, it’s comforting. The shade cast by the wooden blue box behind them falls on their backs, whisking away the dull glare red of the sun into gray, murky shadows on the mud. It hums ever so slightly, that magical, living, bigger-on-the-inside wonder that is their time and space machine’s low murmur joining with the twittering of alien birds to create a strange kind of natural hymn. For all the horror below, there’s something rather beautiful to it, too.  
                                                                                                                                                          
“Did we do good, Professor?”  
  
Next to her stands the Doctor, ancient and incomprehensible as ever. His lips twitch as he considers, readying for yet another ponderous purr. “The Repozans will never exploit the J’boonies again. We ended one of the great injustices of this galaxy’s third great age.”  
  
“But was it worth it?” Ace asks.  
  
The Doctor’s all twinkle, but there’s a steel to him all the same. “We fought the battle we had to. We helped the good guys win. We did everything we can. I’d call that good.”  
  
“I just don’t feel it, you know? Everything that happened, it was just wicked, and not in the good way.”  
  
The Doctor shifts his gaze from the burning bodies below, his piercing little eyes losing their twinkle. He stares at Ace, and she knows it’s the saddest thing she’s ever seen, like all the colors of the time vortex just went black and cold. The words, when they come, are so fragile, so delicate. “Are you alright, Ace?”  
  
  
  
                                                                                                                                                         -  
The air is sweat and tomato soup.  
  
Manisha scratches one sopping sock with her fraying work shoe. Switch, and the other foot. She needs to buy new shoes. She needs to buy a lot of things. She has the money to buy very few things, and the time to do even less so.  
  
Her eyes slip to the book she has, stowed under the counter. On a good day, she can get several chapters done in a shift. An impatient shadow wafts over her, perfume drifting into the sweaty, soupy haze. This is not a good day.  
  
“What’ll it be?” Manisha asks, beaming. It’s so easy to beam at customers, because it’s so false. And there’s something satisfying about holding herself above that with kindness while the white moms and rich bankers demand this soup and that sandwich.  
  
“That one!” points a well-to-do woman. She’s pointing at a soup tub that’s utterly, utterly empty. Naturally.  
  
Manisha grits her teeth into that smile again. “Just a moment.”  
  
She turns away, hands searching out the rags. It takes her a moment to do, as she’s so busy looking professional that actually being it is a nightmare. Exhausting enough having to do the work without maintaining composure. But Manisha knows what happens when she’s less than a star. She won’t let them see that again.  
  
Wood crackles. The insects run in black rivers, pouring out of the walls. Nobody ever mentions that, do they? The black streams mingle with the heavy, grey, swirling air. And that’s when the heat rises, and rises, and rises--  
  
_Slosh._  
  
A bit of fresh tomato basil goop careens out the corner of the pan as she lugs it to the counter, all over her work apron. Manisha makes sure not to even wince. Just be the happy, smiling server. Manisha sighs, glancing to the book again. It’s science fiction. Much as she’d love to be the hero, she thinks, she’s probably more the robot who turns up for half a second to give them freeze dried space ice cream, before vanishing forever.  
  
Manisha smiles as she ladles out the soup. The woman doesn’t even say thank you. Manisha makes the mistake of looking up to see who it is. Never do that, just focus on the food. But damn. She is stunning, thick, stylized eyeliner around mischievous eyes, stylishly tattered clothes, piercings in places just wrong enough to be taboo but just right enough that you can’t stop thinking about them.  
  
She clearly never thinks about Manisha.  
  
“Manisha, need new apron?” asks Fred, the cook. He’s a nice lad, very poor, not good with English, but kinder than most English people, so it balances out.  
  
“Nah, it’s fine,” says Manisha, ignoring thoughts of laundry expenses and hours. “I made sure not to wear anything nice underneath.”  
  
And besides, the next customer’s already arrived.

 

***

  
“Torrenting!” the Doctor exclaims. He’s in a mad rush about the TARDIS console, jabbing buttons and flinging levers.  
  
“You what?” Even after all her time knowing the Doctor, his frenetic mood swings remained impossible to follow. One moment, so sad he could put freeze time with a look, the next, spinning and skipping with all the fire of a newborn star.  
  
“A twenty-first century concept. Very vulgar, but very useful,” he explains, fingers jabbing buttons one color at a time. “One machine downloads files from another directly through these little data units called pieces. They bypass any other messy clients to get a much faster download speed. Very useful, so long as you’ve got a good antivirus.”  
  
“What’s that got to do with anything?”  
  
He rubs his hands, delighted as he always is when getting to teach her something. “Time Lords have something much similar. There’s plenty of renegades out there, stealing TARDISes of their own. And some of them are, well, newer.”  
  
Ace grins. “Oh, I get it. So you want to nick bits off the more recent TARDISes rather than get a new motor. There was this old guy in Perivale just like you. He lurked a lot in junkyards for his old Anglia, it was like a frankencar! All different coloured doors and bonnet and stuff.”  
  
The Doctor chuckles. “I don’t just want to. I have done! What would you say if I told you we could go anywhere you want?”  
  
“Well, I’d say you already tell me that every time,” Ace zings back, “and we rarely ever land in the right spot. Usually because you decide to go on another evil-from-the-dawn-of-time-stopping errand instead.”  
  
“And what if I told you that you could pilot us there?”  
  
“Oh, wicked! You never let me have a go.”  
  
The Doctor leads her around the console, to a new, rubbery fixture. “This,” he proclaims proudly, “is a telepathic interface. You put your hand in, like so, and the TARDIS will extrapolate from your thoughts and personal timeline where you want us to go.”  
  
He takes her hand, easing it into the rubbery, eggy walls of the console fixture. It throbs and squeezes, pulling her in.  
  
As the ship’s engines groan and wheeze, the ground rocking and shaking under her command, Ace finds herself laughing. If only the gang could see her now.  
  
The laughter falters.  
  
“This will help, won’t it?” asks the Doctor.  
  
Ace doesn’t know how to answer. The more the Professor seems to care for her, the more she feels alone.

 

***

  
  
Manisha sits alone at the tiny wooden table, set for one, listening to the hum of the microwave. It’s early in the evening, but she has nowhere to go. She’s done her shifts for the day. There’s nothing left to do, really, but wait for dinner. And then find something else to do and escape her thoughts. Maybe she’ll go to sleep, she thinks. She’s certainly feeling very sore from the day’s work, and there’s a pleasant numbness in that, even if it smells of soiled clothes and sweaty skin.  
  
The radio crackles and murmurs, trying vainly to break through the noise of the microwave. Manisha could turn up the volume, but there’s really not much point. She just likes the noise, it keeps her from feeling too alone. There’s something scary about being in a house alone, particularly after the incident. Every creak, every shadow, she just feels there’s something lurking. She catches herself looking up at the ceiling, cautiously, then scolds herself for it. What kind of attacker would hang from the roof? That’s just silly.  
  
_BEEP!_  
  
Manisha nearly falls out of her chair as the microwave lets out its triumphant bellow. The microwaved curry is done. Barely even registering her motions, she gets up, opening the microwave and prising out her dinner. Damn! It’s hot. Her fingers will hurt from this. But she doesn’t care. It’s just part of life. Just another nagging little sensation to complicate her numbness.  
  
She sits again, prising off the plastic film and taking a bite. The fork she’s using is dirty from breakfast, but she can’t be bothered to clean dishes several times a day. The chicken is bland and stringy, with the curry a watery, poorly-mixed goop, only lukewarm despite the microwave’s best efforts. Manisha eats the whole thing anyway.  
  
And then, she sits, doing nothing. She could get up. The couch would be more comfortable. But instead, Manisha just puts her head down on the table and closes her eyes.  
  
Her dreams are a blur. Are they dreams? Is she awake? She’s back where she always finds herself when she lets herself drift away. Her mind is a map of streets, which she wanders, lost. There’s familiar landmarks: the old home, her shop, this shithole of a flat. There’s places out of stories she half remembers from a kid, all jumbled up. And there’s places she’s never seen before at all, gray houses of pure imagination. Some streets are empty. Some dark, some poorly lit. The lower streets are flooded in a murky, black fog. When she walks in one direction, she feels a pain in her head. She could walk out, she knows, back to the waking world. But she doesn’t. She walks toward the pain. Maybe this time, she’ll find the meaning she’s been missing.  
  
Knock, knock-a knock knock.  
  
Manisha grumbles, shifting her head but not opening her eyes. In her mind, the streets shift, as though being observed scared them out of their place.  
  
Knock, knock-a knock knock. The familiar pattern is its own strange kind of music. Unlike the microwave and the faint voices on the radio, there’s a rhythm to it, a music. Calling her back to livelier times.  
  
And with it comes a voice, calling from the past. “Maneesh! Open up!”  
  
Ace? This surely has to be a dream. One of those doors in the streets of her mind she closed long ago.  
  
“It’s me, doofus! I know you’re in there!”  
  
Manisha opens her eyes in a groggy panic, stumbling to her feet. She finds herself accidentally knocking the microwavable tray to the floor, but that’s no matter. She can always clean it later.  
  
“Manisha?”  
  
Manisha takes the last, difficult steps to the door, steadying herself against the adjacent wall. Her hands rake her eyes, rolling away the dots of crust along the bottom. A deep breath, and she opens the door.  
  
Ace McShane stands there, a massive smile on her face. She’s barely changed at all.  
  
And when they hug, Manisha actually feels something.


	3. Interlude: The Monster Under the Bed

Knuckles grip the bedpost. Sweat steams the air, and his heart beats out into the night. He mustn't fall over the edge. He mustn't dangle his arms or legs over the end. The monster will see him if he does.

He can hear the monster. It has a heartbeat, too. It never changes, even as his own races in his tiny, fragile chest. Ba bump. Ba bump. Like clockwork.

It’s not even the dark that scares him, not anymore. He can see the faintest blue light, spilling out from below, into the room. The monster has its own glow.

Mustn't slip. Mustn't fall. He’s tying the blanked to his neck now, in a frenzy. Then he’s looping that blanket to the bedpost, pulling it tight, holding him fast. The monster can’t take him if he never goes over the edge. That’s how monsters work. They can’t come over the bed. Right?

His eyes sweep to the window, out into the night air. The moon is at its highest. So long to go before it descends again. Too long before morning.

His eyes close, head drooping to his chest. He jolts up again. Bam. Bam. He punches his scrawny chest with all the strength his bony little fists can muster. It barely leaves a mark, but the slight trace of pain is good. It focuses him. Keeps him from slipping away. He won’t be taken tonight. 

The metal monster’s human heart keeps on pounding into the dark, as Simon Sternberg huddles on the bed, refusing to let sleep take him. His mind races with every little painful, paranoid thought the night can muster.

But mostly, he’s wishing to know where his dad is.

On the floor lies a stuffed green ogre toy. Fuzz drifts away lightly into the night air as the metal bugs devour its innards.

The monster watches, its blank face pondering the still child above. The monster’s blue eyes fall upon the window and the night sky. There’s another monster out there, it knows, and a very good reason to fear. If only the child knew, well, that would be interesting data...


	4. Liftoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ace takes Manisha to her place to show her a good time.
> 
> Not like that.

Manisha pours the tea. It’s just cheap bags, but it’ll have to do. Ace has the chair, so Manisha just stands.

“Where have you been all these years?” Manisha asks. It’s meant conversationally, she thinks, but it comes out angry and bitter. Who knows? Maybe that’s what it should be, anyway.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe where I’ve been,” Ace chuckles. It’s almost smug, though clearly she doesn’t mean to be, as though her life has just been that exciting that she can’t keep it bottled up. “But what about you? I haven’t seen you in years!”

“Well, I moved away after the...thing. I graduated, did decent enough I guess,’ Manisha explains. Decent enough. That’s one way to describe the crushing disappointment of her A-levels. She knew she should have gotten top marks. Instead she just scraped by. Lazy, stupid girl. “I’ve been working in the supermarket. Cleaning and things.”

“So did I,” laughs Ace. “Till I dumped a milkshake on the manager’s head.”

Manisha can’t help but laugh. Same old Ace. “You did what?”

“And on a customer.”

“Must have been the proudest moment of your life,” Manisha says. God, that’d be a glorious achievement. Picturing the pink muck running down her own nagging boss’ oddly flat snout of a nose gives her great satisfaction.

“Not even top fifty,” Ace grins, before sipping her tea. She tries to hide her disgust with the weak brew, but Manisha can see it plain as day.

She feels lonely all of a sudden. Ace had her adventures, same as always. Pretty, white, rebellious Ace, never having to worry about the consequences. “Why did you never come to see me?”

Ace ponders a moment. “I never got the chance. I was so far away.” It’s not a total lie, is it? Never the right time or place. Sure, she stopped in contemporary Earth a few times. A lot of few times. But there were always monsters to fight, plans to execute. Surely that’s alright? But it doesn’t feel alright, and Manisha has the scent of her guilt:

“You didn’t just run away with some guy, did you?”

Ace laughs, loud and forced. “Of course not!”

“Ace?”

Ace ponders. There’s something she needs to prove, somehow. Manisha needs to see that. “Why don’t I show you?”

  
***

Ace knows this is a bad idea. But Manisha deserves better. That’s what matters, right? Good intentions?

She and Manisha stand before the blue box. She reaches up to the lettering, finding the P and the key hidden behind it. The Doctor’s worst-kept secret. Fingers fumble at the lock, pushing the fake one aside to reveal the real one, which ace slides the key into. Ace has done this a thousand times, but showing Manisha has her nervous enough to feel like it’s the first.

“A lock hidden behind a lock?” Manisha laughs. “For this old crate? Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

She’s right, Ace thinks. It totally is. But she doesn’t admit it out loud. Instead, she swings open the doors proudly, ready to reveal the spectacle.

Manisha stands for a moment, shocked into wordless silence. She walks a full lap of the control room, slowly, glancing around every direction. All over the walls, all over the console, raking the floors, and then, yes, conquering her anxiety of attackers on the ceiling, her eyes devour the room around her. It’s impossible. It’s brilliant.

“How are you doing that?” Manisha asks, in awe.

“I’m not doing anything,” Ace says proudly, “It just comes like that. Wicked, isn’t it?”

“You’re kidding,” Manisha laughs, but looking into Ace’s face, she knows she’s not. And so she’s running, running with a life she hasn’t felt in years, through the large, white chamber. She’s marveling at the roundels, tracing her fingers along every last button, laughing at her distorted reflection in the central glass column. And then…

“Who is this?”

Peering around a doorway into the belly of the ship is the Doctor. He’s clearly just as surprised to see her as Manisha is him, but that doesn’t stop him from giving a cheery, “Hello! You must be Ace’s friend.”

“Hi,” Manisha responds, awkwardly. “Ace, I thought you said you didn’t run off with some guy.”

“No, of course not,” Ace declares. “He’s my assistant.” Seeing Manisha’s skepticism, she adds, “Well, my seventh assistant. He’s been replaced him a few times.” That’s not a lie, right?

The Doctor’s wet, blue eyes cut into her from across the room, that beautiful, biting concern a laser into her heart. “Ace, what’s going on?”

Ace takes a deep breath, steeling herself. She needs all the bravado she can muster. “I’m going to take Manisha for a short trip, then we’ll come right back. Why don’t you wait for us outside. Go grab some coffee or something.”

“Short trip?” Manisha asks from across the chamber. “We can’t leave this place yet! It’s too cool!”

“Don’t worry, Maneesh, you’ve seen nothing yet.” But it’s not Manisha’s eyes she’s focusing on, but the Doctor’s still daggers into her soul. Coming in closer, she takes his hand, trying to bring every bit of gut-punching emotion and young innocence to her voice. It’s been a while since she last guilt-tripped an adult; her mother stopped responding to such things years ago, and her teachers were a lot less sympathetic to the troubled teen image when said troubled teen started blowing up ceramic pigs. But the Professor, he still sees how young she is. Everyone is young and vulnerable to him. “Please, Professor,” she pleads, trying to sound as young and broken as she ever has. After a day on the battlefield, that comes surprisingly easily. Maybe the only lie is in telling herself this is just a ploy. “I need this.”

Those piercing blue eyes break away from her. She knows she’s won. “Coffees it is, then,” he declares, half-skipping his way to the door with a flourish of his umbrella. “I’ll get you each one for when you come back.”

He pauses at the door, about to close it, and then stops. “Travel safe,” he tells her, then shuts the door firmly.

“I will,” Ace promises. But only after he’s gone. It’s easier that way.

“Travel where?” asks Manisha, tearing her gaze from the wonders around her.

“You see this gizmo here?” Ace gives the console a good, friendly thump for emphasis, and the ship burbles back.”

“Oh my god!” Manisha’s almost worked it out. “Is it some kind of spaceship?”

“Oh yeah,” Ace grins. “Watch this.” She places her hand firmly into the telepathic interface, and the central glass time rotor begins to rise and fall.

Outside the TARDIS, the Doctor watches, concerned. “Oh, Ace,” he mutters, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

With a wheezing and groaning, as it always does so well, the TARDIS fades out of existence.

Without him.

And then, after a few moments pass, the TARDIS comes back.

The doors open.

And he can’t believe what he sees.

**Author's Note:**

> Full story can be found online at http://doctorwhofanfic.weebly.com/015agoldenage.html


End file.
